Another Time Stories by Donald Bisset. P.3

Дата публикации: Aug 01, 2021 1:4:58 PM

Big Dot and Little Dot

Once upon a time there was a pencil, and it liked drawing lines and shapes and shady bits and scribbles.3 But one day it said to itself, “I know, I’ll draw some dots.”

So it drew a big dot and a little dot.

“You can be the mother dot,” it said to the big dot. “And you can be the baby,” it said to the little dot.

For a while the dots were very happy. “We like being dots!” they said. “It’s much more fun than being a straight line or a scribble.”

“Humph!” said a scribble, nearby. “You are just ordinary silly dots. So be quiet and remember your manners.”

They kept quiet for a while ' and then the big dot said, “I’d like to go and play!”

“Oh, no!” said the little dot. “I’m the baby. / can go and play. You’re big. You must work and do serious things.”

“I don’t want to!” said the big dot. “I’m going out to play.”

“Oh, no, you’re not!” said the pencil and drew a circle round the big dot so that it couldn’t get out.

It was angry, and thought, “How can I get out of the circle? Perhaps if I cried I’d float over the edge.”

So it tried hard2 to cry. But it couldn’t.

“Anyway, it wouldn’t do any good if you did cry,” said the circle, “because the blotting-paper would dry all the wet away.”

“Perhaps if I was friendly to the circle,” thought the big dot, “it would let me out. I could curtsey and say, ‘Good morning, Circle dear! How are your little arcs today? Is the Inner Circle 3 quite well?’ —Oh dear, no, I don’t think that would work.”

Just then the pencil thought, “I think I’ll write a story!”

So it did. And it said to the little dot, “Would you like to be the little dot over an t'?”

“Yes, please!” said the little dot.

“All right!” said the pencil. “You shall be!” And it made a little i and then the dot went on top — i.

“That’s fine!” said the pencil and it went on writing the story and had finished it all except for the full stop 1 at the end when it broke its point. It was vexed.

“Don’t cry!” said the india-rubber that was near. “I’ll rub out part of the circle, then the dot can get out and be the full stop at the end of your story.”

“All right!” said the pencil. “Thank you very much, India-rubber.”

So the rubber rubbed out part of the circle and the big dot got out and became the full stop at the end of the story which the pencil had written.

And that’s the end of the story, full stop.

The Boy Who Growled at Tigers

Once upon a time there was a little Indian boy, whose name was Sudi,2 who growled at tigers.

“You be careful,” his mother told him. “Tigers don’t like being growled at.”

But Sudi didn’t care and, one day, when his mother was out shopping, he went for a walk to find a tiger to growl at.3

He hadn’t gone very far when he saw one hiding behind a tree waiting for him to come along so that he could chase him.

As "soon as Sudi came up, the tiger sprang out and growled, “Gr-r-r, gr-r-r.” And Sudi growled right back, “Gr-r-r, gr-r-r.”

The tiger was annoyed!

“What does he think I am?” he thought. “A squirrel? A rabbit? A ocelot? Er ... An ocelot?”

So next day, when he saw Sudi coming, he sprang out from behind the tree and growled louder than ever, “Gr-r-r, gr-r-r!!!”

“Nice tiger!” said Sudi, and stroked him.

The tiger couldn’t bear it and went away and sharpened his claws and lashed his tail and practised growling.

“I am a tiger!” he said. “T-I-G-E-R, TIGER. Gr-r-r!” And then he went and had a drink at the pond. When he had finished he looked at his reflection in the water. There he was—a lovely yellow tiger with black stripes and a long tail. He growled again, so loudly that he frightened even himself, and ran away. At last he stopped.

“What am I running away for?” he thought. “It’s only me. Oh dear! That boy has upset me. I wonder why he growls at tigers?”

Next day, when Sudi passed, he stopped him.

“Why do you growl at tigers?” he said.

“Well,” said Sudi, “it’s because I’m shy, really. And if I growl at tigers it seems all to be vice versa,1 if you see what I mean.”

“I see!” said the tiger.

«—•

“After all,” said Sudi, “tigers are the fiercest animals in the world and it’s very brave to growl at them.”

The tiger was pleased.

“Fiercer than lions?” he said.

“Oh, yes!” said Sudi.

“And bears?”

“Much fiercer.”

The tiger purred and felt very friendly.

“You are a nice boy!” he said and gave him a lick.

After that they often went for walks together and growled at each other.

Daisy’s Journey

Once upon a time there was a lazy elephant whose name was Daisy. Every afternoon when it wasn’t raining she liked to go to sleep under a big oak tree and dream she had a great big feather bed to sleep on.

“I wish I had a big feather bed,” she said to the sparrows who lived in the tree. “I’d have a lovely long sleep and then go to Australia to see my granny.”

“You’re much too lazy,” said the sparrows. “You’d better go back to sleep, Daisy.”

“Perhaps a mole would dig me a hole at the bottom of the garden,” thought Daisy. “I expect that would lead to Australia.”

So she asked a mole whose name was Ernest, if he would dig a hole for her.

“You are silly, Daisy!” said Ernest who was rather clever. “I know Australia is the other side of the world but you’ll never get there by digging,1 It’s much too far. The best way is to jump.”

“Jump?” said Daisy.

“Well,” said Ernest, “if you could jump very very high and not come down for twelve hours the world would have turned half-way round by then and Australia would be

underneath you. Then you could come down and go and see your granny.”

“Oh,” said Daisy, “I don’t think I could jump as high as that, not even if I got a grasshopper to teach me.

“Why not point your trunk at the ground and blow?” said Ernest. “Then you would go up like a rocket.”

“I couldn’t blow hard enough,” said Daisy. “But, perhaps, if I got on a real rocket and went up in the air and let go when Australia was underneath, then I’d get there.”

“No,” said ErnestJThey wouldn’t want an elephant on a rocket. You could try and be your own rocket, though. J’ve got a plan so that you’ll be able to blow hard enough. You must drink a whole bathful of fizzy lemonade., Then you’ll fizzle and wizzle and sizzle inside so much you’ll make a very good rocket.” 1

“All right!” said Daisy. And she drank a bathful of fizzy lemonade and she fizzled and wizzled and sizzled inside and pointed her trunk at the ground and then snatching an umbrella, she whizzed higdi up in the air, nearly to the moon. Then she opened the umbrella and came slowly down.

All the time she was coming down the world was turning round so that when Daisy was nearly on the ground Australia was underneath her.

How the people cheered!

“You are a clever elephant!” they said. “What a saving in fares2 this’ll mean! Would you like a present?”

“Yes, please!” said Daisy. “I’d like a big feather bed so that I can lie down and have a lovely sleep and then I’ll go and see my granny.”

So the people gave her a feather bed and Daisy liked it very much,

“Look!” she said to the Australian sparrows. “I’ve got a feather bed!”

“Humph!” said the sparrows. “So have we! We’ve all got feathgr beds,” And they put their heads under their wings and went to sleep.

The Milkman’s Horse

Once upon a time .there was a very clever milkman’s horse who could write. His name , was Harry. He wrote a note to the milkman.

Dear Milkman,

Please do not make such a clatter first thing.

I don’t feel up to it till latter. Yours sincerely,

Harry

He showed it to the other horses in his stable. “Huh!” they said. “What do you mean “latter”? There is only one t in later if that’s what you mean.”

Harry was annoyed and muttered to himself “Clatter latter—clater later — water watter”.

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“Anyway,” he said, “I bet none of you can even write. There was no answer.

“Well then,” said Harry, “one spelling mistake. That’s not bad.”

As a matter of fact1 Harry was in a bad temper2 because he had a sore nose. When he was learning to write he held the pen between his front hooves and kept falling3 over.

He’d keep quite still and rigid but if he moved ever so slightly or even blinked he’d begin to tip slowly forward, and then — “bang!” right on his poor nose.

After a bit he learnt to stop falling over by resting the nib on the paper and balancing that way, but it broke as often as not4 and even when it didn’t it made it scratchy to write with.

In the end he learnt to write by holding5 the pen in his teeth. But his nose was still sore.

Next morning when the milkman came he read the note, and for the first half hour he didn’t clatter the bottles at all, but later, when Harry was properly awake, he clattered in the way milkmen usually do.

“How is your poor sore nose this morning, Harry?” he asked. “It looks better.” He stroked him and gave him an

apple.

That evening, in his stall, Harry wrote a poem.

To my best Friend (the Milkman)

Of course A horse Likes apples They make him fatter And that’s what matter .... what matters It makes them tatters.

Anyway I like them.

Good-bye for now.

Two pints please.

He put the paper in the top of a milk bottle and next morning the milkman came and gave Harry some sugar lumps. - .

Five big lumps, a middle-sized lump and two small lumps. '

The milkman held them out to Harry on the palm of

his hand. <

“Don’t make too much noise crunching them or you’ll

wake the other horses,” he said.

So Harry crunched them quietly while the milkman

read the poem.

“That’s a good poem!” he said. “And thank you for the kisses. Here’s three right back.” And he gave Harry three kisses and then they went and delivered the milk.